


Forget December

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long line of disappointments, Chester expects very little from the festive season. That is, until he joins Hybrid Theory and meets Brad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget December

It’s Christmas Eve and Lee Bennington says “Your mother is expecting you.” Which Chester takes as ‘I’d rather spend the night with a girl who costs more than I earn and is barely eighteen than with you, fuck off.’ Doesn’t care much, though, because at least his mom isn’t ever sober enough to try and hit him. Or touch him. Like that.

He packs his bag, smuggles a bottle of his dad’s expensive vodka into the bottom of it and leaves without saying goodbye. Not like he’d get a reply anyway – his father has selective hearing and Chester isn’t lucky enough to be on the list of people he likes to listen to. Or maybe it’s that he is lucky, because at least this way he’ll never have to explain why he doesn’t have a girlfriend and spends all his time with guys and comes home with darkened eyes and dilated pupils or reeking of alcohol.

It’s not far to his mom’s house; he’s used to the walk now anyway. God forbid either of them drive him anywhere. He stands outside of the door and drops his bag at his feet, rings the bell twice slowly then twice fast. Remembers “mommy owes some people some money” and the way she showed him how to ring the bell so she knew it was him. He remembers her saying something about getting a mouth full of lead but, back then, he didn’t know what that meant.

She doesn’t answer and it’s starting to get really cold. The clouds are heavy on the horizon and the sun is setting slowly behind them, illuminating them a smoky orange. It’ll rain, for sure, and Chester has a horrible feeling he still won’t be in doors when it starts. Tries ringing the bell again and fights down the bitter taste of disappointment when there’s no answer. He takes a few steps back and looks up at the house, the windows all black and the curtains drawn. It’s obvious he isn’t welcome here.

He turns on his heel and wonders where the hell he’s going to stay. He can’t go back to his dad’s – the man is probably doing blow off the belly of a prostitute and that isn’t something he wants to witness. He knows he can’t just barge in on anybody on Christmas Eve. Even though the people he is generally associated with are pretty much the scum of the earth, there’s a certain etiquette to life.

He’s half way to the bridge when it starts to rain, fat droplets falling heavily from the sky. “Fuck you, God.” He hisses gloomily and pulls the hood of his jacket up, digging his hands into his pockets. He really needs to get out of here. Out of Arizona. Out of America, maybe. He’ll be a rock star, one day, and he’ll travel around the globe and nobody will look down on him or hurt him.

Or maybe he’ll be stuck here forever. Right here, under the bridge by the river. As he settles against the brick of the bridge and digs the vodka from his bag he raises a toast to the moon and the stars and wishes everybody else out there like him a ‘Merry Christmas’ and a big ‘Fuck You’ to the people who don’t care. A fuck you to Lee who couldn’t care less and a fuck you to his slut of a mother.

As he empties half the bottle slowly down his neck and relishes the burn and the way his stomach turns he thinks to himself how Christmas sucks and how, just maybe, things have to get better from now on.

***

It’s his first Christmas in LA and he’s more than prepared to spend it alone in his crappy little apartment with its dripping taps and creaking pipes and the smell of something old, like the smell in antique stores where you just know that everything you’re surrounded by is a hundred years older than you, if not more.

Didn’t buy a tree, or lights, or presents because there’s no point. It’s been days since he’s spent time with anybody but himself and he’s starting to wonder if moving here was such a good idea. After Mike found out he’d been sleeping in his car he got his ass out and found a job at a book store where he hasn’t heard of any of the authors or the titles and everybody is snobby and looks down at him and this can’t be the path to fame, can it? Isn’t that path supposed to be paved with hot women (or men, in Chester’s case) and parties and booze and drugs and being bailed out of jail by your best friend just to do it all again. Instead the path seems to be paved with overdue-bills and night after night in his apartment.

He sits in the middle of the floor (because he hasn’t gotten round to buying furniture yet) and watches cartoons on his fifty dollar TV, smokes his way through a pack of cheap cigarettes and wonders how long he’s going to be able to stand this. Not the concept of living alone but living here. Everything is so different to Arizona and he can’t get used to it.

The phone rings and he glares at it, wishes he had caller ID because that way he’d know whether it was safe to answer or not. For real, there are about ten people waiting to drain his wages the moment he’s paid. As it turns out it’s just Hybrid Theory’s guitarist, Brad, who says “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“What do you care? You’re Jewish.”

“But you’re not and I wondered what you were doing.”

“Sleeping until noon then rolling out of bed and calling my brother to wish him a Merry Christmas and talk to my nephew then I’ll probably hang out of my window and smoke a joint and watch everybody else being merry,” He pauses to stub his cigarette to death in the glass ashtray beside him, “then I’ll eat some cheap noodles, get drunk and maybe vomit or pass out depending how long I drink for. How about you?”

Brad laughs “Sounds like fun. I’m doing nothing. Want to come do nothing with me?”

“Sure.” Because anything sounds better than another day alone.

“What do you want?”

“Huh?”

“Present. Chester. A...gift? You know...Christmas presents and shit? What do you want?”

Chester is stunned. He’d never thought about somebody buying for him, the idea never crossed his mind and he says, jokingly “A big kiss.” Or maybe not so jokingly, because Brad is hot. And single. And maybe he’s gay, too.

And down the line he laughs again and says “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

***

Chester gets stoned before leaving for Brad’s, takes a joint or two with him in his cigarette carton just in case he needs them. Standing outside of the apartment building pressing the buzzer expectantly he remembers being eighteen and remembers spending Christmas under the bridge, blind drunk and miserable and wet because of the god damn rain and all he can do is pray that this isn’t a sick joke and that maybe Brad really is interested in spending time with him.

Brad’s voice comes over the intercom “Chaz?”

“The one and only. Gonna let me up?”

The door buzzes and Chester pushes it open, climbs the stairs to the number apartment Brad said was his and knocks on the door. The guitarist opens it and smiles broadly. “Merry Christmas.”

Chester can’t help but grin back as he steps into the apartment and says “Merry Christmas.” There are no cheesy decorations, no ugly tree, no mistletoe. This is his kind of Christmas. He says “I love that you’re Jewish.”

Brad laughs “That’s the most original compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Awkwardly “I er...” digs out his cigarette carton and fidgets with it, “I’m kind of broke so I couldn’t get you...anything...but er...” offers him a joint with a shaky smile.

Brad looks as though he might raise an eyebrow or make some other sarcastic facial expression but instead he beams “A man after my own heart,” takes one of them from the carton and says “Best present ever.”

They lounge on Brad’s sofa and smoke, get high then get higher and laugh at the stupid tradition of Christmas and the lights and the celebrations. Chester wants to tell Brad about sleeping under a bridge but doesn’t think it’s appropriate, doesn’t want to dampen the mood and instead jokes “So. Where’s my present?”

The guitarist smirks and leans forward to lay his joint in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of them. He blows out a cloud of smoke and says, teasingly, “What makes you think I got you one?”

“The fact that you didn’t stutter awkwardly and make up some lie about not having wrapped it yet.”

Brad laughs and turns to face Chester with a grin, “You’re really...cool.”

And if that isn’t the funniest thing Chester has ever heard. He starts laughing and he can’t stop, tears streaming down his face and his stomach aches because him? Cool? He doesn’t stop laughing even when Brad mumbles a faint protest at being ridiculed or when he says he’s going to kick him out or hit him or any of his other empty threats.

But when he kisses him. When their lips meet and they instinctively move closer to each other, the kiss deepening and their tongues meeting, that’s when he stops. That’s when everything becomes less funny and becomes a lot more serious. Brad’s hands wander around to the small of Chester’s back, slipping under his shirt to stroke the smooth skin their and the older man can’t help but moan quietly in pleasure.

They break away after a second and Chester searches Brad’s eyes for…anything but Brad just grins and says “Merry Christmas.”

And Chester – he laughs.


End file.
